


Kill, Kill

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Neverland (Once Upon a Time), Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 17:11:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4108624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>set after the kiss and before the bagelfire. angsty and smutty and neverlandy. porn with a semblance of a plot. my latest offering in the neverland renaissance we've got going over on tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Kill, Kill

“It's nothing, it's stupid,” Emma mumbled, slumping down on a rock. She felt woozy and swoopy and it wasn't until Hook made an exasperated noise and knelt in front of her, reaching out to lift up the hem of her shirt, that she realized why she felt so funny. 

“Swan, that is most certainly not _nothing_ ,” he muttered. She looked up to make fun of him for sounding so worried, but there was something in the way his brows were drawn together that made her stop. He looked, like— _really_ worried. His lips were pressed together in a straight line and his eyes were scanning her skin. She figured it had to be pretty bad if he was touching her and not even making a comment about it, one of those super obvious sexual jokes that she kinda hated, kinda loved. 

She looked down at where he was touching her side, suddenly fearful that she had some mortal wound, but when she saw the tiny scratch, she started to laugh. The heaving laughter of her body brought a sharp stitch to her side, and her hand flew reflexively to cover the scratch, but she didn't stop chuckling. Who knew that Captain Hook was afraid of a little blood? 

“Just get me the first aid kit and I'll be fine, Hook. Gees.” 

“The which?” 

“I was—nothing. Just slap a leaf on it or something. I'll be fine.” He didn't seem placated by that, though, just kept on poking at her skin and pressing into her side with his fingers. She slapped his hand away and pushed herself to standing, craning her neck down to have a look. She must have caught an arrow when the Lost Boys had attacked, and she was kind of annoyed by it. But really, it _was_ just a scratch, barely anything to write home about. She pressed her own fingertips around the wound, wincing at the slight pain but knowing she'd be just fine. She was more annoyed by the tear in her shirt. 

“Swan,” Hook sighed. He still looked worried, and when she took a closer look at his face, a curl in her gut told her that there was something else going on there, something he wasn't saying. 

“Why do you look so worried,” she breathed, realizing she whispered it and knowing that there was definitely something wrong. 

He looked up at her then, his eyes wide with concern and fear. She wondered if he was reflecting the look on her own face. 

“Out with it, Hook.” She didn't have time for this, and while she tried to sound irritated, it came out in that same whisper-fear breathlessness. 

He swallowed once before standing, his body very close to hers as he looked at her seriously. Emma swallowed nervously on reflex, knowing that if Hook was this close to her without like, trying to tease her about how good he was in bed that he was about to lay some serious crap on her. 

“The Lost Ones, they--” He looked away, out into the jungle, and she wanted to scream at him or slap him for drawing out the suspense. “They often tip their arrows with dreamshade, a poison found here on Neverland. The same one that...” He closed his eyes and his head sank down a little, muttering the rest of the thought to the ground. “The very same poison that killed my brother.” 

It took Emma a few seconds for that to sink in. Oh. _Oh_. 

“How long?” she whispered, clutching her side and ignoring the soft crinkle of pain. 

“We don't know that you were--” 

“How _long_?” 

“Let me see it again.” 

Her shirt had fallen back down so she lifted it up, wincing at the dried blood that had stuck to it as she peeled it away. She didn't want to look but she couldn't help it; like passing an accident on the road, she watched his hand reach out in slow motion, watched the way his fingertips barely brushed the skin around the wound. It didn't really look so bad and it didn't hurt all that much, not even when he touched her. In fact, it kind of tingled. If she hadn't just been maybe-poisoned, she might even have taken the time to appreciate the callouses of his fingertips on her skin as he prodded it. 

His brows drew together and he tilted his head to the side, bending down to inspect the wound closer. When he spoke next, she could feel the warmth of his breath against her hip. 

“It doesn't look to be spreading,” he murmured, tracing his finger just above the flesh. “Your veins seem...normal. Liam's turned black almost immediately.” 

“So...not dying, then?” 

“I don't know.” 

“Well, what _do_ you know?” she snapped, stepping away from his perusal and pulling her shirt down angrily. Emma always felt like a goner anyway, but now it was like, imminent. She had to find her kid before she died, she just _had_ to. 

“Swan,” he sighed, more exasperated than worried now. That should have comforted her, but it didn't. “I didn't want to tell you my fears in case it was not necessary. The Lost Ones do not always aim to kill. Perhaps their arrows were not tipped with the stuff. Perhaps they were, but the poison did not transfer. I think you're safe. I _believe_ you're safe.” 

“Yeah, well. Just because we're in Neverland, doesn't make everything you believe true,” she retorted, her sarcasm masking this new feeling of fear of her own mortality. Dammit, they needed to find her damned kid. 

“Let me see it again,” he demanded, but she brushed him off. 

“No. If I'm running out of time, then we need to find Henry before--” 

She didn't finish the thought. 

Xxxx 

An hour later, Hook came up to her again, insisting he have another look. She hadn't even bothered to do anything to the scratch other than pour some water on it once they crashed back through the trees and over to their campsite, ignoring his protests and his insisting they tell her parents. Hell no, she wasn't going to worry them. That would take away from the focus of the mission. 

“Give over, love.” 

“Go away.” 

“Emma.” 

“Killian.” 

“Perhaps I'll keep insisting, if you're so irritated that you call me by my given name.” 

“You do that.” 

“Emma.” He sounded tired and that pissed her off, because she was tired, too. Tired of being shot at, tired of the fucking jungle. So tired that she looked around to check what her parents were up to (sleeping) and whether Regina was studying them (she wasn't) before reaching down to lift up her shirt. She didn't even feel scared to see the look on his face because honestly, she'd rather know if she was definitely going to die. 

Apparently not, because when his eyes darted down to her skin, he instantly let out this devastating, full-on grin of happiness. Like, the kind of grin that can distract a girl into walking into traffic, it was so bright and genuine. 

“Swan. I think we can safely say that you're going to be just fine,” he said smugly after taking a second to recover, swaggering while standing in place to make up for the fact that for a second there, he'd been happy about her not dying, which was something she didn't want to think about just now or ever, really. “Do me a favor, love, and avoid those arrows. I'm an old man, I fear my heart can't take it.” 

“Whatever,” she muttered, smiling at his twinkling eyes, but only because she felt good that she was possibly going to make it out of Neverland alive. 

Xxxxx 

The following day (night, whatever), the Lost Boys attacked again, not even coming into their camp or anything. They seemed fond of just firing off warning shots and then whooping off into the darkness of the jungle, like they were just reminding the adults that they were still there, and they were still little assholes. 

It was a near thing, too; David had to hold Mary Margaret back from running into the jungle, bow-first, and they still couldn't find Regina, who'd stalked off into the greenery with her arm outstretched and one of her fireballs perched just above her palm. After scanning quickly to make sure Hook was still standing, Emma shook her head a couple times in annoyance at the disruption to their sleep, going over to check on her parents and sitting with them until they wearily crawled back into their little makeshift bed. She heard Hook cursing to himself and when she glanced over her shoulder, she saw him reach into his pocket for his flask before crashing off into the trees, probably to go get good and drunk. 

She decided to join him, figuring that a few slugs of rum would be really good about now, so she whispered good-night to the already nodding-off David before going in search of Hook. 

She had to push through a lot of vines and giant hanging leaves for a while before she found him. He was easy enough to follow, snapped branches and torn green things leading her deeper and farther away from their camp. _Jesus, Hook, don't wander so far_ , she thought irritably, but then she saw something that made her heart jump up into her throat. 

One of the leaves had a smear of blood on them. 

She didn't stop to think or breathe or curse, she just started running, her feet sure and leading her to him. _Captain Hook can't die in Neverland_ , she thought, her mind on the edge of hysteria, huffing out a chuckle that lacked humor. Then she was reaching a sort of clearing next to a small stream, and she came up short when she saw him. 

He had pulled his coat off before sitting on a rock several yards away from where he'd dropped the bundle of leather. He was leaning on his left elbow, and his good hand was clutching his side. 

There was blood on his fingertips. 

Filling with sudden fury that he let himself get hurt, Emma went over to where he sat, leaning neatly in one swift motion to pick up his coat without breaking her stride. She tossed the heavy leather on the ground next to his rock and stood before him, her hands on her hips, utterly pissed and having to control the boiling of her blood. She shut her eyes and willed it to stop, realizing it was her magic, and that it was in an absolute froth. _How dare he get hurt. How dare he_. 

“Let me see it.” 

“'Tis but a scratch, love,” he said, smiling thinly, but she could see the fear in his eyes, the same worry he'd had just the day before when they were in reversed positions. 

And then it hit her. Oh fuck, oh no. Jesus Christ, _no_. 

She didn't let him try to beg off or joke away as she could tell by his face he was about to do; she just held out a finger and shook her head angrily, reaching out with her other hand to pull at the hem of his shirt. She sucked in a sharp breath when she came across more blood. 

He was hit, and he was bleeding. And it was deeper than her own stupid scratch, more jagged. 

“No.” 

“Love, I've sustained far worse. You should see some of my scars. This won't even merit a good story, it was--” 

“You shut up.” Emma was at a loss. She didn't have anything to bandage it with, nothing to wipe away the blood so she could look at his veins. He'd said the dreamshade made his brother's turn black, and she wanted to have a good look at them so she could see if—but no. She wasn't going to think about that. She came to a quick a decision and stood quickly, her mind going into action mode so she could avoid having actual thoughts. She pulled her shirt off over her head and went over to the stream, dipping it in the water and wringing it out. When she got back, she vaguely noticed that Hook was totally glassy-eyed and staring at her chest, but she ignored that because she had to get him cleaned up. It was all she could focus on. 

“ _Ah_ ,” he gasped as the cold, wet cotton touched his side. She grimaced and changed the pressure she was using, dabbing at the wound and trying to wipe away the blood. He leaned back more to give her space to work, his legs stretching out next to where she was crouched at his side. When she felt like enough blood had been cleaned away, she leaned down to take a closer look, breathing in deep and bracing herself. She didn't even want to think about what she'd do if she saw blackness tracing paths along his veins, didn't want to think about what they'd do (what she'd do) without Hook to guide them (her) home. 

She frowned at his side for a few minutes, dabbing at the occasional blood that collected along the edges in fat droplets. After a while, she realized that her knees were starting to hurt a little and that he had goosebumps up and down his skin. She felt bad about that, that she'd basically thrown cold water on the guy, but this was fucking serious, he was _hurt_ , he could _die_ , and-- 

“Swan, I think I'll live to annoy you another day,” he said somewhere above her, his voice infuriatingly light and teasing. And that did it. Fucking pirate. She knew he'd been alive for like, ever, but this was not the time for jokes. She needed him, she needed him to live, and-- 

“Love, why do you look so mad? I know we're all under strain here, but honestly. I've survived far worse than this. In fact...” But as she stared him down, torn between wanting to slap him and wanting to press her fingers down on every single vein in his side to prevent the poison from going anywhere else, she saw his face change from amusement to dawning comprehension. And a half second after that, arrogance. He looked _smug_. 

“Ah,” he nodded decisively, sitting up and forgetting that he was wounded before wincing and flopping back to leaning on his elbow. “I see.” He mock frowned and nodded a couple more times, infuriating her even more, which was just fine by her. Anger was much better than the panic she could feel rattling around in her lungs. 

“What?” she snapped, refusing to meet his eyes. She didn't know what he'd see there, and she definitely didn't want to find out by how he reacted to it. Instead, she just poked at his wound, and if she poked him a little hard, well. 

“Swan,” he said softly, still amused, reaching out to stay her fingers. “Swan, it wasn't an arrow.” 

What. 

“Swan, I, er--” He let go of her and reached up to tug on his earring, his tone changing to discomfort. “I went to deflect an arrow and managed to scratch myself with this.” She saw the glint of metal in the corner of her eye as he waved his left wrist around before continuing. “Not the first time I tore my own flesh with the thing, although it's been a while. You should have seen me when I first got it, bloody scratches everywhere, including--” 

“Oh.” 

Emma didn't know what to say for a second. She felt blank, really blank, like. No thoughts. And then she felt this boiling in the pit of her stomach, maybe her magic, more like that familiar feeling she got every time he was near, like she was mad at herself for feeling soft around him, even though it was always just for a second. Then red-hot embarrassment ran through her, embarrassment that she'd misread the situation, that she'd reacted with panic. Then she got mad at herself for being embarrassed because—well, she didn't know, actually. 

Emma never did do very well with discomfort, usually opting to run from it but this time deciding to stay, to face it. She looked him right in the eye, and when he gazed back at her, his eyes steady but still holding traces of sparkle and maybe even a little bit of satisfaction, that's when she relaxed. Because even though she was embarrassed, even though she was pissed at herself—mostly, she was relieved. Because _he wasn't going to die._

The relief. It cooled her anger, cooled her ire, until the red fury mixed with the white light of ease until she was just left feeling warm, and kind of happy. Because he wasn't going to die. 

As she stared at him and felt something inside her snap off, she jerked in reaction, lurching toward him. Before she knew what was happening, she was grabbing the loose lapels of his shirt and pulling him down toward her. 

“Swan, what--” 

“Shut up,” she breathed into his mouth. She was suddenly very tired, and the only thing that seemed like the correct response to that was to close her eyes and just...let it happen. Seemed inevitable, anyway. 

She heard his breath hitch the moment their lips met, felt a rumble come from somewhere deep in his throat. She made a similar sound, their soft moans mixing along their tongues as they tasted each other, soft and unhurried, this kiss different from their other one. Her fingers tightened their grip, moving restlessly, gathering the fabric of his shirt more and more and pulling him in even closer. It was like without his coat on he seemed more open, and she needed that a little, knowing that he was as vulnerable as she was. It made what she had suddenly decided to do easier to deal with. 

She pulled away and looked right into his eyes, looking for even an inch of mockery, or teasing, or hell, lying. But no, he was just like from before, the last time she'd kissed him, looking a little broken and a lot overwhelmed. Her fingers tightened and she licked her lips, about to say something, but he beat her to it. 

“Emma,” he whispered, his voice rough and low. “Don't walk away from me this time.” 

“'Kay,” she whispered back. She pulled away and took a step backward, a chill brushing over her skin. Then she realized that she was only in her bra, and he hadn't even touched her. Like, even in a moment like that, he was still waiting on her, still seeing what she would do, forever pushing her buttons but never quite stepping out of line. It made everything so easy, and she felt the corner of her mouth tug into a quick smile. 

She looked around and noticed his coat still sprawled out next to them, so she kicked at it before pointing at the thing. 

“Lay down.” 

“What?” He sounded confused, even shaking his head a little, like he was trying to break out of the lusty haze she could feel herself shooting his way. 

_He wasn't going to die._

“I said, 'lay down,'” she repeated. When he didn't move she made an exasperated noise and reached out for him, grabbing his shirt and dragging him into her space. He stumbled into her, seeming to do his best to avoid touching her bare skin, so she made it easy on him. She tipped her head back, still holding onto him with one hand, using the other to cup one side of his face. Looking right into his eyes to make sure he got it, she said, “Take off your shirt and lay down.” 

“Emma, I don't--” 

“Oh my God. I never thought in a thousand years it would be this hard to get you out of your clothes,” she said, huffing out a quick laugh. Or maybe-- “Umm. Or if you're not interested, then I'll just--” 

“No, no,” he said quickly, shaking his head as he kept staring into her eyes. Then he lifted his mouth into a half-grin, that one that screamed “beware of pirate,” the one that drove her nuts, and she saw the moment it happened—the moment he stopped being adorably confused and shifted into Captain Hook mode. His eyes darkened fractionally, enough that she saw it, and the intensity there made her shiver with anticipation. 

Then he stepped away from her and toward his coat, sweeping off his shirt all in one neat movement. He flung the mass of black over to where her shirt was still wet and kind of bloody and wadded on the ground; she watched his shirt arc through the air and when she turned back to look at him, he was already laying on his coat and propped up on his elbows, his legs crossed at his ankles with an expectant look on his face. 

“Going to check my wounds some more, Doctor Swan?” 

“Stop talking.” 

“You like it when I talk.” 

She decided to ignore that, instead turning to fully face him as he lay on the ground before her like some lewd and unforgettable meal. The hair on his chest was kind of obscene in the way that it trailed all the way down to where his pants began, tapering off slightly, like it was pointing to a path she definitely needed to amble down. All her misgivings, all her reservations—they were all forgotten. Or ignored. She didn't care, she was just too damned glad because _he wasn't going to die_. 

She didn't think about what would happen later as her mind was screaming at her to do; she just shoved that stuff aside and made with kicking out of her boots without falling over. She reached down and flicked the button on her pants easily, and she kept eye contact with him the entire time. It was incredibly empowering standing above him, watching the lust light his eyes a blazing shade of blue, watching how his entire body seemed to tense in anticipation or holding himself back. As she lowered her jeans, keeping her eyes on his, he smirked and snapped his arms out before folding them behind his head. The complicated contraption on his left arm fascinated her momentarily, so she shifted her focus there, tracing the leather straps down his arm with her eyes, the pale underside of his bicep flexing under her lazy perusal. 

She straightened, now only in her underwear and bra, feeling strangely comfortable despite the fact that they were out in the open. She stepped forward then, lowering herself down until her knees straddled his still-leather-covered thighs. 

She saw that he was about to speak, probably to say something smirky or infuriating, so she fell forward until her hands landed above his shoulders, her hair curtaining around their heads. That definitely made him change his mind about speaking, his eyes flickering down to her mouth, his jaw clenching tightly. 

She brought her head down to kiss him and as their lips met, he breathed in through his nose, sharp and almost surprised. This kiss was like their second from minutes before, soft and searching and at least on her part, still releasing the relief that was making her feel lazy and relaxed, her body screaming “finally.” 

Fucking _finally_. 

It was also screaming _now_ , and she could feel thrumming in her blood, the build-up, the boil; the need starting to curl in hot little tendrils and boiling furiously under her skin everywhere she was touching him—the insides of her knees, the undersides of her forearms—especially there, where his skin was hot under hers—his mouth. She couldn't stop brushing against his lips, like now that she'd given in to this second (third?) time thing she just refused to stop, would die if she stopped. 

“Hook,” she said, pulling away enough to talk, her chest heaving and brushing against his every time she exhaled heavily. “I just...I need you to let me do this. Please.” She tried not to sound like she was begging, but who the hell was she kidding. Then, because she couldn't bear not kissing him, she nudged at his lips with hers and then he nodded against her, his mouth slightly open, his breathing labored and loud. 

He craned his neck up to kiss her and it was like he didn't want to stop, either, his lips soft but insistent and insistently opening hers. She wanted to laugh at how gentle and tentative he was being, like he was afraid he'd freak her out, so she dropped her jaw and swept her tongue into his mouth, gasping when he met her tongue; a slow, sloppy kiss, the kind where she kept making little noises and he seemed to be eating them up. 

Her hands were around his neck, her fingers pressing into his hair. He was warm, warmer than the air around them, and she felt hot, like she was going to melt against him. The way he was tasting her slowly, his mouth languid and exploring, pausing to suck at the corner of her mouth, releasing her and when she went to chase his lips he was at the other side, repeating his movements, being thorough like he always was. 

She suddenly felt impatient to feel him, _really_ feel him, so she pressed her hips down and ground against him, making him let out this long, delicious groan that she could taste. 

“Swan, you keep doing that and I'm afraid you won't enjoy this as you may wish,” he grunted in between nips at her mouth. His hand was in her hair, tugging in sharp, painful twists that sent thrills of sensation down her entire body. She could feel her magic responding to it greedily, seething to a boil with every sweep of his tongue and calming to a delicious “hello there” every time he shifted underneath her, like the tendrils of awareness flowing through her body were spreading her out, making her ready for it. 

She was so ready for it, for him. And she was getting impatient. She wanted him to touch her. 

“Hook,” she breathed into his kiss. “You can touch me.” He paused everything, his entire body stilling, including his mouth. She laughed against his lips, opening her eyes to see him looking at her with a question in his eyes. And that got her. She knew, always sensed that he would never do anything without her full participation, and he had it right now. She needed him to know that. 

“Swan, are you sure?” 

She sat up, huffing and feeling frustrated. She was on top of him and she was in her underwear. Obviously, she was sure. She raised her eyebrows while looking him right in the eye before grinding down more thoroughly, circling her hips and feeling him twitch below her. It felt so fucking good that her eyes nearly rolled back in her head. All of her magic, all of her frustration and her confusion and her relief that he was going to be okay seemed to focus right where she was moving, and she just needed to do something about it. 

“You keep asking me that,” she said, her voice husky, her breath hitching when he thrust up slightly—oh, _there_ \-- “and I'm going to leave.” 

He nodded, his mouth open, and then it curled into that predatory look she'd always appreciated on him. His eyes darkened and the thrumming in her veins started to boil again—yes. She knew she had him then. 

He reached out, no longer tentative, his arm steady and sure. He put his hand against her bare belly, his fingers splayed. The rings he wore were warm against her skin, warmer than his hand. She resisted the urge to watch it, instead keeping eye contact, noticing how his irises held different shades of blue that seemed to deepen the lower his hand traveled. She held her breath when his palm brushed the waistband of the cotton underwear she wore; she leaned back, her knees digging into the leather beneath as she went. She put her hands out and braced them behind her on his thighs, still watching his eyes grow darker, his hand trailing lower. 

When his fingertips reached the fabric he stopped, this nasty smirk full of possibilities curling the corners of his mouth. She held her breath, waiting for him to keep going, but he didn't. Ass. 

“Hook--” 

“Patience, love.” 

“Fine,” she huffed. All of the muscles in her body were tensed and waiting, not daring to move except for the ones inside of her, the ones pulsing insistently, waiting and waiting for him to keep going. And just when she was about to snap at him or stand up and find her pants, that's when he moved. 

His fingers slipped beneath the waistband, slowly, torturously, until she thought she would burst or curse or slap his hand away and do it herself. 

When he reached neat, trimmed hair his eyes widened and she grinned. He kept going and they both gasped when his fingers encountered wetness—Jesus, she was ready. So ready. His eyes turned impossibly dark then, no longer blue, and she couldn't take it anymore. She thrust her hips forward, the strain in her thighs totally worth it because his fingers slid against her, rough and hard then slow and soft, rubbing lightly then twisting down. She started moving, slowly at first, little circles of her hips that were more backward and forward, his erection moving beneath her and his fingers dancing along and then inside her, oh _God_. In a smooth maneuver he flipped his hand so that his palm hit her clit on every forward thrust, his fingers curling inside her simultaneously. 

She was basically fucking his fingers, her hips now gliding back and forth, gasping every time his rings brushed against her most sensitive parts. It was so—he was so-- she wanted him inside her, she wanted him inside of her _now_. 

She sat up and pulled her hips away from his hand, feeling a little smug at the confusion that turned his eyes back to that Killian blue. Before he could so much as ask “are you sure,” she was kneeling above him, kissing him, wanting to taste that little bit of Killian before he turned back into the pirate she wanted. Her hands were braced on either side of his head so she lifted one of them, trailing it down between their bodies, tangling in the chain around his neck and tugging on it, wanting to snap it off, letting go and raking her nails down the ripple of his abdomen until she got to the waistband of his pants. 

Between the two of them, they managed to get him unlaced without letting go of each other's mouths. His kisses were controlled, hers desperate. She moaned when he lifted his hips up to shove his pants down, and it was all she could do to let it happen, he kissed so well. She could feel herself getting out of control, she wanted to let go, and she wanted to let go with him inside of her. Little thoughts kept slipping through, telling her this was not a good idea, but she shoved them aside, knowing she'd have to think about it later but right now, she just didn't give a fuck. Not when he was looking at her with a mixture of predatory satisfaction and breathless disbelief. So she let go of anything that distracted her from that—the slightly confused pirate between her legs. 

She sat back again, drawing the corner of her lip between her teeth and wiggling her hips until she got settled around him, hissing when she felt how hard he was beneath her. Just one shift forward and he'd be there, that's all she had to do, but she waited to see what he'd do first, killing herself with the waiting, her muscles clenching crazily as she watched him. 

And he didn't disappoint. He raised an eyebrow and his hand; she followed that hand as he brought it slowly between them, the red jewel on his ring catching a stray bit of light. She followed it, watching his hand as he lowered it further. Slowly, he curled all but two fingers, making a hook as he turned his wrist. She craned her neck forward, still watching, holding her breath when he pulled aside the scrap of fabric covering her. She bit down on her lip and gasped when the metal of his rings brushed against her clit, the light touch jerking her along the length of him. God, she was so wet, she slid so easily, every touch killed her, she was going to die. Then she felt the tip of him beneath her, moving against her wet flesh, and it was would be easy, so easy to just-- 

He jerked his hips up and sank into her. 

She couldn't help it, she cried out, loud and uncaring. He was thick and hot and hard and moving, easing into her with teasing little circles of his hips. She'd thrown her head back, so she looked down at him, in a daze, disbelief making her breathless. She knew it would be good, she knew he'd feel good. He had a similar expression, his head also thrown back and his mouth hanging open, his lids heavy across his eyes as they stared at each other. 

When she was fully seated they both stopped squirming and circling, a silent agreement to take a second and just...appreciate. He was still staring at her from between narrowed eyes and she was still looking at every part of his face, at how wrecked a hot guy could look when he was about to fuck and be fucked. 

Then she clenched involuntarily, and it was on from there. Either he gasped or she gasped but whatever, it was loud and he let go of her underwear as he thrust up, his hand scrabbling along her skin, grabbing at her thigh and squeezing tight as she rose up and lowered down and thrust forward, feeling herself being lifted from the force of his thrusts, feeling the sharp contrast of cold when his hook found her other thigh and slid up her skin until it rested at her hip. He held her, metal and a squeezing hand moving with her, not guiding her. 

She closed her eyes and let her body go, feeling the loose tendrils of pleasure curl around in her pelvis, pressing into them when they sharpened, thrusting and chasing when they got good until they got _really_ good, so good that she couldn't keep her balance; she let herself fall forward, her eyes opening as her hands landed on his shoulders, the new angle making her groan. He was looking at her, a slight furrow of concentration between his brows, his mouth hanging open and harsh breaths and gorgeous little groans escaping from his throat. She wanted to taste them, she wanted to taste them when she came and she was going to come so she leaned down, the tickle of his chest hair against the tops of her breasts making her tingle as she mouthed at his mouth, his breathless panting mingling with hers; the sharp tingle as his cock pulled back made her hold in her breath, hold onto the feeling, the feeling before falling, a timeless pause before she crashed, crying out into his mouth as her hips lost control, at once pausing and sitting back to prolong the feeling, the feeling, the curl and tickle and then and then and then it started, needles and pins behind her eyes and piercing delight traveling down her body, settling around him and in her. Stars and kisses and Killian, no Hook, fuck, Hook, Hook, _Hook_. 

“Fuck, Hook,” she panted, still coming down, still going, shivering now. He was still moving in her and she was done but she wasn't done, she had his face between her hands and her mouth on his mouth. Her hips jerked as he kept going, his hand now on her hip as he started to thrust harder, jerkier, more erratically. Her fingers curled into his beard as she started to dance her hips around, helping him find his release, and just when he slowed and his mouth pulled down into a look of utter, blissful pain, the angle of his thrusts changing slightly, she felt a small gasp of surprise renewed pleasure so she angled into it, pushing up onto her elbows that were resting on his shoulders, rolling her hips down and smile-gasping as she came again, a little one but good, so good, so nice, it was nice to come with him looking at her like that, like he'd just seen God and was glad to die for looking. 

It was another minute before Emma moved, some sound out in the jungle startling her out of the silent afterglow thing in which her mind had shut down and she'd just lain on top of him, he still inside of her and she resting her face on him, mouthing at his lips, her thumbs brushing through the scruff on his jaw. Then that noise, some rustling in the leaves, and the reality of what she'd just done, what they'd just done crashed down on her. 

Okay. Wow. 

She pushed herself up, resisting the urge to just jump up and walk away. She didn't want to look into his eyes now that they'd done....that...but she decided to be brave. She watched him as she pulled away, and when the intensity he'd had only minutes ago dimmed and shuttered away, she felt betrayed. 

Then again, to be fair, she was the one pulling away first. He was like her, in a sense; defensive to prevent getting hurt. She ran when things got too real, he got all hackles raised and defensive, thinking she was going to say something shitty. 

Her mind screamed _unfair_ , but at the same time it was kind of like, “well, yeah.” So she didn't say anything. She just kept pulling away slowly, lifting her hips to disengage from him but still looking at him, making sure he knew she wasn't just going to cut away and pretend like it never happened. 

Wasn't she? 

Then she noticed that his wound had started bleeding again, which was perfect, because it gave her an excuse to not face what they'd just done. Before she scrambled up to get her shirt to tend to him again she said, “Your wound,” her voice soft and placating, hoping he got that she wasn't just running away. 

By the time she returned with the wet shirt he'd gotten dressed, even putting on his coat that had some faint green streaks on it now. She smirked at that, wondering if she'd think of this every time she saw them, but that brought on her thoughts of doubt, of “oh shit,” and she frowned. 

“Don't worry about me, love,” he said flatly, and when she looked up it was to see a terrible look of indifference on his face. “I'll just be going to get some firewood. Or something.” 

When he walked away from her, she felt this awful, indignant rage coupled with sadness, because that was fair. This would be a one-time thing, too. It had to be. She didn't think she could take it if he got hurt again. 

She waited five minutes before following him, and by the time she made it back to camp, he was asleep, or pretending to be. Which was just as well. She didn't think she had it in her to talk to him just yet. 

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! come say hello to me on tumblr- this-too-too-sullied-flesh. the title is a song by lizzy grant (now known as lana del rey) and has the refrain, "i'm in love with a dying man," which is why i picked it.


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